99. Wonderdonkey

With all his performance skills and learning aptitude and winning sociability, Gus can rightly be called Gus the Wonderdonkey.  But he presents a whole ‘nother layer of wonder for his humans: what the hell does he want/hate/fear/love this time?

Having seen his encounters with such personal-care products as fly spray, wet sponges, a hose, and odorous ointments, I predicted that inserting his ouchy feet into baggies of vinegar and bleach would provoke at least some minor calamity. At best, it would probably require one person to hold his halter and reward him for not resisting while a second person dealt with the plastic and liquid.  To my wonderment, not so.

When Sandy demonstrates the bag-soak protocol, he behaves, in her words, like a perfect gentleman.  First, before setting his foot down after picking the hoof, she slips a quart-size zip-lock bag onto it.  He stands in the crinkly bag without batting an eye.  She does the other foot.  Next she decants about a quarter-cup of the White Lightning concoction into each bag.  He still barely notices.  Now she ties a length of baling twine around each ankle to hold the bag closed.  She leaves, and Gus wanders over to his hay pile as if walking in plastic puddles couldn’t interest him less.

While his feet soak, I give him a sponge bath.  He’s nearly shedded out to his thin summer coat, but a small mohawk of thick fur runs down the center of his back, and his throat and underarms are still fluffy.  Today it's nearly 90 Fahrenheit, so even in the shady barn with a big round fan in the aisle, in his shady stall with a box fan strapped to the bars, he’s sweating damply.  After currying and brushing to remove as much loose hair as possible, I begin wiping him down with water.  I know he likes the cooling ends, but he hates the dripping means.

The water from the barn spigot is always very cold, so I let the bucket sit awhile.  I get him to touch the sponge dry, touch it damp, touch it wet, touch it while I squeeze it so it splashes, etc., etc.  He eats up the clicks and treats but never loses his mistrust of the sponge.  I dampen a small bit of him, reward him for tolerating it, give him a break, and then dampen the next part (video from last summer’s bathing here). We spend at least 30 minutes on this refreshing toilette — enough time that I can now remove the smelly, wet bags from his feet.  Which, wonder of wonders, he again doesn’t mind one bit. 

Which only makes me wonder:  what are the odds that he’ll be a gentleman when I redo the soaking tomorrow?

53. VIDEO: Bath time

With biting flies trying to eat Gus alive, he has several patches of tiny scabs on him.  We rub them with Swat, a wound salve that contains insect repellents (along with hot-pink dye, persumably to show humans which areas they’ve already smeared), but Swat’s soothing properties seem less powerful than its dirt-attractant properties.  Gus could really use a bath.
 

In the past, Sandy says, he’s thrown tantrums to avoid being bathed.  So I embark on a program of desensitizing, starting with a small wad of paper towel and an inch of water in a little tray.  I dip my hand and let him taste the water on my fingers.  Now I dip the paper towel and let him touch that, and I click and treat.  I touch his shoulder with the soaked but wrung-out paper, and he doesn’t react, so I click and treat.   I wipe his flank, and his leg, and his face, and I click and treat each time.  Easy peasy.  The next day I use a small bucket and sponge, and the same slow and clickery approach.

And on the third time I use a large sponge and lots of water.  [Full video here; installments below.  As Gus touches the sponge, I squeeze it, sending water splashing into the bucket.  He points both ears hard forward, fixing the whole setup with a suspicious eye, but he doesn’t budge.  Click!  As I wipe the wet sponge on his shoulder and belly and legs, he freezes but doesn’t flinch, earning more clicks. 

When he gets fed up and contemplates an exit, I walk him around a bit.  And I give him a break (following the advice of “horse speak” author Sharon Wilsie) by lowering my head and heaving a big sigh, and he lowers his head with me.  When I sponge the center of his back, he bends his hind legs to drop and arch his back, but he doesn’t budge his feet, so he gets more clicks.  I sponge his chest and front legs, letting water drip down around his hooves.  I wipe his ears and face, even the insides of his thighs, where the cooling seems especially welcome.

All in all, we spend about 20 minutes suffering the wiping and splashing, and offering the touching and standing quietly.  He never gets 100% comfortable with the wet sponge, but it’s abundantly evident that clicks and treats make the medicine go dow-own in a most delightful way.